The Matter of the Silk Scarf
by indiegal
Summary: Hastings misses Poirot when he goes away. Short and sweet.


The Matter Of The Silk Scarf

It is a truth universally acknowledged that it is impossible to keep a secret from Hercule Poirot. However, I, Captain Arthur Hastings, beg to differ. I have one secret from the little detective and I'm proud to say he suspects nothing.

It started accidentally. Miss Lemon had packed Poirot's bags in a hurry when he was summoned to who-knows-where for some matter of national importance and had left out one of his silk scarves. This was rather unusual for Miss Lemon, who is usually a lady of great order and method, hence her value to Poirot. I found the scarf just as I was heading to bed that evening and was about to put it away when I caught the scent of it. It smelt exactly like my friend, and before I knew what I was doing I was in my room, in bed, still clutching Poirot's scarf. I slept better that night than I had done in years.

It isn't often that Poirot leaves without me; more often than not I accompany him and attempt to be helpful. I know that I will never make as great a detective as he is, but I like to think that my observations and casual remarks about a case serve some purpose. He certainly thinks so, or I would not still be here. After that first occasion, I was not left by myself for nearly a year and had almost forgotten all about it.

We were sitting in our customary fashion in the sitting room, with Poirot behind his desk and myself on the sofa when my friend put down his post and regarded me across the room. He informed me that he needed to go away for a night and that he would be leaving me here as he was expecting a very important caller. I agreed, somewhat half-heartedly – life was always more exciting wherever Poirot was. As he walked past me, I caught a waft of his cologne and remembered the last time he had been away. Quickly, while he was busy in the kitchen, I stole into his rooms and slipped a scarf out of his bag. He left not long after, and I took his scarf to bed with me again that night.

The months and years passed. I was not often away from Poirot, but whenever we were forced apart I managed to sneak a scarf that had his unique flavour to it out of his bags to keep with me while he was gone. He never commented on it, and I surmised that as Miss Lemon always packed his bags for him he would not necessarily notice the absence of a certain item unless it was one he had specifically requested. I was careful to choose different scarves each time so that my friend did not get suspicious.

I mused on this incident that had somehow become a habit as I walked home. As I rounded the corner and caught sight of our building I quickened my step. Poirot was due to leave this evening on a trip up north and had requested I stay behind. I was anxious to get home before he left as I had had no opportunity earlier to select a scarf from the scented ones he proposed to take with him as opposed to the freshly laundered ones he would leave behind. As I let myself into the flat, Miss Lemon emerged from the office.

"Oh, Captain Hastings, there you are!" she said with relief. "I was just about to go home but didn't want to leave until you were back. Mr Poirot's just left I'm afraid, he had to catch an earlier train." My heart sank; I had missed my chance. I saw her out and then glumly turned back to the interior of the flat. My friend was gone for two nights, possibly three and I had nothing to remind me of him in his absence. I checked his rooms in the vain hope of finding something, but everything was clean and crisp and smelt of starch. I resigned myself to a couple of lonely days on my own and wandered the place aimlessly, eating my dinner without really tasting it and reading a dull book.

I stayed up late, not wanting to go to bed knowing my friend was not in the flat. When it was past midnight and I felt tired enough to fall sleep immediately without lying awake dwelling on matters, I made my way to my rooms. I had brushed my teeth and made all my preparations before I noticed something on my bed and a note pinned to the pillow. Opening it, I found a short missive in my friend's hand.

"Mon cher Hastings,

I regret that I had to leave before you were back from your errand. I hope you have a good few days and are not too bored on your own. As you did not have time to make ample provision for my absence, I have taken it upon myself to make sure you will be comfortable during my time away.

Ever yours,

Hercule Poirot"

Underneath the note was a neatly folded silk scarf.


End file.
